


Keepsakes

by abi z (azephirin), azephirin



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Alternate Canon, Backstory, Betrayal, Bisexual Character, Boston, California, Childhood, Choices, Closeted Character, Dysfunctional Family, Episode: Blind Date, Infidelity, Introspection, Los Angeles, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-11
Updated: 2010-01-11
Packaged: 2017-10-06 04:37:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/49734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azephirin/pseuds/abi%20z, https://archiveofourown.org/users/azephirin/pseuds/azephirin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The unexamined life is not worth living. Or: Lindsey makes a different choice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keepsakes

**Author's Note:**

> The first slashfic I ever wrote! This is an older fic, written immediately post–"Blind Date" (before we found out anything about Lindsey's origins). Mainly gen, but Lindsey/OFC and Lindsey/OMC in background.

He was not the type of man for keepsakes: his apartment was spacious but spare, decorated with bare walls except for an Alfred Stieglitz print of a winter night in New York, a kind of cold he swore he would never know again. His dishes were black, his countertops white, and you could have eaten off the hardwood floors if you'd wanted to. But people were never impressed by the cleanliness, and his dates had always insisted that he come to their places.

But he had a few things, beyond the basics of suits and ties and cutlery and shampoo. He had his sister Letitia's seventh grade picture--the year of her death, that February when influenza had struck the Maine coast and sent her to what their mother believed was a better place. He had Lana's picture, too, from fourth grade: in May, three months after Letitia's death, not so much out of sickness but loneliness from missing her sister. And then the survivors, taken two years later, the year he'd graduated high school. Larissa, the oldest, at nineteen, already working in the mill; Lambert, sixteen, who would later drop out of high school and join the Marines; Leander, at fourteen, with his bright eyes and shaggy hair; and Lindsey himself in the center, seventeen, smiling, knowing he was getting out. He kept the pictures in his wallet, behind his California driver's license, and sometimes, idly, he looked at them, trying to divine the thoughts behind the faces, most especially his own.

Those ridiculous names, all L's after their parents, like it was some sort of cosmic miracle that Larry MacDonald and Leda Cunningham had wound up marrying each other. Lindsey had gotten strong because of his name, blacking the eyes of the latest person to call him "girly-man" or "faggot" or any number of small-town taunts. He wasn't sure which variety of insult he fought harder: his name he couldn't control, but the sex part he could, and all the adolescent Lindsey could think was that he had some genetic defect, something that ran in the MacDonald family just like alcoholism, that made him ache for a man. Girls were tantalizing, too, but he couldn't imagine that they wouldn't guess his secret, and so he defended his name and his honor, and he made it through high school celibate and undiscovered. He was the first in his family to apply to college, and he prayed to a God he didn't believe in that it would get him out of Maine.

It did: it got him to Hastings University in the heart of Boston, surrounded by trees and seventeenth-century churches and tony clothing stores. And there, much to his surprise, his name served him well, just feminine enough to seem upper-crust. Lindsey arrived with two suitcases, and he found himself rooming with Hunter Kirkland, whose family looked at his name and his Maine origins and assumed that he was just like them. They were Bostonians who summered in York Harbor; they didn't know one Maine hole in the wall from another, and Johnstown might as well have been Kennebec for all the Kirklands knew. Hunter pulled Lindsey onto the lacrosse team, ignoring his lack of experience, and they played together for four years. Lindsey stayed in Boston for Thanksgivings, Easters, and even one Christmas, and he lived for a summer, between his sophomore and junior years, in the Kirklands' airy Cambridge house while he interned with a law firm downtown.

The right thing to do that summer would have been to succumb to the attentions of Ginger, Hunter's nineteen year-old sister, but it was instead her best friend who captivated him. Therica Albright's family were cousins of the Kirklands who lived in Wellesley. Therica was doing a summer dance program in the city, and rather than commute the hour, she was staying with her relatives in town. The kinship was distant, but Therica was clearly related: she had Ginger's sun-blond hair and Hunter's patrician nose. Lindsey had met Therica in passing around the Hastings campus--he remembered dimly that she had been to one or two of the lacrosse matches--but he recalled her only vaguely. But it was the sight of her out on the back porch early one morning, using the old wrought-iron loveseat as a barre for her ballet stretches, that stuck in his mind.

He started riding the T with her every day: Therica's studio wasn't far from the firm where he was working, and she only left about twenty minutes after he did. Her wit was sparkling, sometimes edgy, and she missed nothing. She had mild dyslexia, which made school a struggle, but she gave directions to tourists in fluent French, German, or Japanese. She was weirdly awkward around the opposite sex, but with Lindsey she let herself shine. He fell in love with her every day on the T, back and forth from downtown to Cambridge. They lived chastely enough with the Kirklands: Therica was hesitant to sneak around in her relatives' house, and Lindsey was too shy to do any more than kiss her. Hunter walked in on them in the kitchen late one night--Therica sitting on the counter, Lindsey standing, her legs around his hips, his hands in her hair--but had simply laughed, said, "Excuse me," and left again.

School started just after Labor Day. Hunter and Lindsey moved into a suite in one of the campus houses, and Therica moved into an off-campus co-op with two friends. Lindsey was invited to spent the night, but never did: he was embarrassed to tell Therica that he'd never had sex before. That Thanksgiving, though, Hunter's parents were in Greece, and Therica was in a fight with her mother, and so they had dinner at Therica's apartment. Lindsey and Therica cooked a turkey, Ginger and her boyfriend brought potatoes and a pie, and Hunter's girlfriend brought her grandmother's green bean casserole and pound cake. Hunter, as usual, supplied the alcohol. Afterwards, sleepy with food and zinfandel, Lindsey and Therica had fallen asleep on the sofa, and he had woken several hours later from nightmares of hunger and cold.

They were bad enough that he woke Therica, too. She pulled herself into a sitting position and leaned Lindsey back against her. "Who was Letitia?" she asked.

"Just someone I used to know."

"Did she die?"

Lindsey whipped his head around to meet calm blue Brahmin eyes. "What makes you ask that?"

"You kept telling her to wake up."

And so he told her about Letitia, and Lana, and the rest of them. Larissa, at home in the sock factory; Lambert, who'd been shipped off to Somalia; Leander, who had already lost an eye in a knife fight; and finally himself, who had escaped. Therica listened to him quietly for most of the night. Then she tucked Lindsey into her bed, told him she loved him, and let him sleep for the next ten hours.

They'd made fumbling, exploratory love the next morning--Therica, Lindsey was delighted to discover, was no more experienced with men than he was with women. She was remarkably verbal in bed, and if she didn't like something, she told him; if she did like it, she just moaned. They went out for orange juice and Chinese food on Saturday, but beyond that stayed in the apartment for the entire weekend, and only got dressed when Therica's roommates returned Sunday night. He lived with her unofficially for most of that year, and officially the next, when Therica talked her parents into paying for a one-bedroom in Somerville. Lindsey loved her, and he wanted to do things the right way. It was easy for him to ignore other girls--it was what he did anyway--and less so for him to ignore other men, but he did, and he was faithful, and he told himself that he always would be.

Senior year, Lindsey applied to six law schools, each of which waived his application fee, and he got into all of them. UCLA gave him the best aid package, a full ride plus living expenses, and he would not know until years later that the offer was underwritten by a UCLA grad and managing partner of Wolfram and Hart. Lindsey moved west in August, and Therica, who had put off auditions and gotten a job teaching dance at a day school in Westwood, moved with him.

And there, Lindsey thought ten years later, looking out from his office onto the lights of Los Angeles, his troubles began.

Los Angeles was different from Boston--not to mention Maine--in every way. It was sunny all the time, and everyone there seemed beautiful and well-fed; even the migrant workers looked better off than most of the people he'd known in Johnstown. When he walked to class, both men and women openly appraised him. One evening in the grocery store, a man about his age, handsome and clean-cut, dressed in a fraternity cap and faded blue jeans, had been making casual conversation for about ten minutes when Lindsey realized with a shock what he really wanted. Matt, his name was, and that night, in his bed, Lindsey slept with a man for the first time. Clearly, Matt had done this before, and Lindsey was content to spread his legs and let Matt fuck him into oblivion. It was a pattern Lindsey found remarkably easy to establish.

What surprised him was how easy it was to lie to Therica afterwards.

She found out, though. It was idiocy to think that she wouldn't: her father had cheated on her mother for years, and Therica knew what to look for. Lindsey realized, later, that she checked for signs of infidelity as subconsciously as he made sure that the apartment was always warm, and that there was always five days' worth of food in the refrigerator. He didn't really think they were going to starve, and she didn't really think he would cheat, but she smelled it out like a werewolf smelling fear, and she left. Lindsey dug himself into school, and then into Wolfram and Hart, and he filled his bed with actors and models of both sexes, and one day he was thirty and about to defend a child-killer.

He had made his choice and allied himself with Angel, and then he had remade it, and he had sat at his desk in the empty office that was now his, and he had thought, all this is mine.

But now he thought: it has to end. He closed the blinds, cutting the room off from the outside, and without the city lights, it looked like what it was: empty and sterile. It was time to leave, and it looked like Wolfram and Hart might just let him go.

Lindsey put the phone back on the hook and called his banker at home. In ten minutes, the transaction was done: ten thousand in cash, awaiting him at Western Union, and the rest in a trust fund for Larissa and Leander's kids. When he left, he taped a note to the door: I QUIT. He smiled at the guard on the way out.

There wasn't much to pack. He folded some sweaters and jeans into a suitcase, a couple of suits in case he needed them, and threw in an overcoat. He had a friend in Worcester who ran a Legal Aid office. He could support himself working there for a while, and then maybe he'd leave the practice completely. Get a master's in legal theory and teach somewhere: live in a college town, drive a Hyundai, and watch the leaves change every year. Marry a former student and have a couple of kids. Forget about demons and dark-eyed vampires and blind murderesses.

The Western Union was five blocks from his house. He parked on the street and had the money in ten minutes, and then back into the Jag. It was about a three-day drive to Massachusetts, four if he slept. He could stay with Hunter--remarkably, after the Therica debacle, Hunter still spoke to him, although Ginger didn't--until he got on his feet, called his friend in Worcester, found an apartment. He hadn't been back East in years. He wondered if it still looked the same. Los Angeles was a living, volatile organism in a way that Boston, settled so many years ago, would never be. L.A. glittered and expanded and shone, while the East seemed to writhe within limits written years before and never changed.

But at heart, Lindsey was still a Maine hardscrabbler, and he'd gotten in over his head out here. Hunger and cold he could fight, and he'd thought he could juggle demons and vampires and living an hour from the Hellmouth (because what was Maine if not a colder version?). He'd thought he could do it, and he had watched it fall down around him

He pulled off the highway in Santa Monica to get gas and coffee. He filled up the car and then got the largest size of coffee they had, loading it with sugar--black as sin, sweet as love, as Hunter might have said--before paying at the counter. "You're gonna be up all night with that," the clerk, a young blond man with a lip ring, remarked.

"I have a long drive ahead of me."

"Going on a trip?"

Lindsey shook his head. "No. Leaving for good."

The boy smiled at him. "Seems like a lot of people around here want to leave for good. Not many of them do it, though." He handed Lindsey fifty-seven cents in change. "Good luck to you, man."

Outside, underneath the half moon, the night was filled with stars and possibility.

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel: [Eastward](http://archiveofourown.org/works/49741).


End file.
